


Hard Choices

by waitingfover



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Choices, Family Issues, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29589999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingfover/pseuds/waitingfover
Summary: What if it hadn't been Maedhros who went to bargain with Morgoth?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	1. Angel of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! I am using primarily the character's Quenyan names.   
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo = Maedhros  
> Makaluarë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Tyelko/Teylkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm  
> Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir  
> Curvo = Curufin  
> Pito/Pitafinwë = Amras

A deep sense of foreboding had been growing in the back of Nelyo’s mind. The carrion crows gathering in the distance did nothing to ease his worry. Morgoth had sent a message saying that he was will to treat with the sons of Fëanor, hinting that he might even be willing to surrender one or more of the Silmarils. After much debate, Nelyo had sent Makalaurë to treat with Morgoth. That was nearly five weeks ago. Five long weeks without any word back about how negotiations were going. The worst case scenario, Makalaurë should have been back nearly a full week ago or at least sent a messenger. 

Finally, Nelyo felt that he had waited long enough without hearing any word back. He sent a few foot soldiers to go and get a report of the negotiations. He sent out ten soldiers. 

A week later only two returned. Nelyo watched from his tent flap as one was taken straight to the healers. The other slowly made his way to Nelyo's office to give a report. When he finally arrived, the soldier lingered in the doorway, hesitant to enter the room. Nelyo could see that his clothing was travel stained, covered in mud and blood. He looked exhausted, swaying slightly as he fought to remain upright. 

"Report. What does my brother say?" Nelyo’s tone was sharp with concern. The soldier shifted from one foot to the other before answering. 

"I…he… he didn't saying anything?" the soldier gulped before hastily adding, "Your highness." 

"What do you mean?" Nelyo narrowed his eyes dangerously. He desperately pushed down the cold panic he felt clutching at his heart. 

"The whole thing was a massacre. Morgoth must have brought a massive army. All of the Elves were slaughtered, we found no survivors," the soldier cringed as Nelyo swiftly strode over to where he stood. 

"Are you sure they were all slain? What about my brother? Did you find my brother’s body?" Nelyo clung to the hope that maybe Makalaurë had escaped. 

"No, the bodies were too mangled and decayed to tell one from another. We scoured the whole area. The only things we found was this," the soldier proffered a small star pendant on a slender chain. Nelyo recognized it immediately. Fëanor had made each of his sons a matching pendant when they were born inscribed with their name. Makalaurë always wore his, never taking it off for any reason. With shaking hands Nelyo took the pendant and turned it over. 

The metal was covered in grime and dried blood, but it was impossible to miss the fact that ‘ _Kanafinwë Makalaurë’_ was inscribed on the back in an ornate script. Nelyo shook his head in denial. Makalaurë couldn’t be dead, there had to be some other explanation. Maybe he had dropped it? 

"Where did you get this?" Nelyo asked as his hand shot out and grabbed the front of the soldier’s tunic. 

"Halath found it in a pile of bodies," the soldier squeaked, his voice an octave higher in fear. 

"And my brother?" Nelyo shook the soldier slightly, not caring that he was terrifying the poor scout. 

"Most likely one of those bodies," the soldier responded, "but like I said before they were too mangled and decayed to tell where one ended and another started, let alone identify the individuals." 

The soldier’s tunic slipped from Nelyo’s numb grip as he stumbled backwards. His anger slowly melted into shock and grief. His sweet, kind younger brother was dead and it was all his fault. Grief hit Nelyo fully, driving him to his knees. It was so soon after his father’s death. It should never have come to this. They should all be back in Valanor, their innocents still intact, safe and alive with their parents. Not stranded here in a strange land, slowly whittled down one by one as they chased after an enemy that, if Nelyo was honest with himself, they could never realistically defeat. 

He was barely aware of the scout as the soldier murmured his condolences before fleeing the room. 

How long Nelyo knelt there on the unforgiving cold floor, he didn’t know. The metal edge of the pendant cut into his palm from his death grip. He watched with sick satisfaction as his own blood coated the grime on the pendant. Pain for pain; blood for blood. His brother was dead; dead because he was so set on their father’s Oath. He was so engulfed by his grief and guilt, he didn’t notice the flap open again sometime later. Strong hands gripped his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

“Nelyo? Are you ok? You’ve been shut away in here for hours. You’re starting to worry the others,” the voice belonging to the hands asked. Nelyo blinked and looked up into the concerned, careworn face of Pityo. The youngest Fëanorion was soaking wet. It was only then that Nelyo realized that it was pouring rain outside. The grim weather reflected Nelyo’s mood perfectly. 

“I sent him to his death,” was all Nelyo could choke out, head dropping again.

“Sent who to his death? Hey, Nelyo, no, look at me. Sent who to his death?” 

“Laurë,” at his brother’s name, the tears that he had so desperately held back came flooding out. Nelyo collapsed forward into Pityo’s arms.


	2. Hindsight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say hindsight is always 20/20...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I am using primarily the character's Quenyan names. Here's a quick reference so you don't get lost.  
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo = Maedhros  
> Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm  
> Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir  
> Curvo = Curufin  
> Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras  
> Ambarto=Amrod

_Two months earlier_

“Fifty soldiers? Don’t you think that's a little overkill Nelyo? After all the announcement decreed both sides will bring no more than ten guards a piece,” Makalaurë looked over Nelyo’s shoulder as the later wrote out a letter to Morgoth for his brother to carry. 

“I trust Morgoth as far as I can throw him,” Nelyo responded, returning the quill to the ink jar and sealing the letter, “If I could, I would be sending you with a whole army, but I need most of the soldiers here to help fortify the camp. Fifty is all I can spare at the moment.” 

“The part I’m not sure about is why I’m I going and not you. You’re the better negotiator,” Makalaurë voice was full of uncertainly. He trusted Nelyo’s judgement and felt honored that his brother thought his was suitable for this task, but something felt wrong about the whole situation. 

“Because I’m needed here and you’re the only one I trust not to start another all-out war,” Nelyo told him without looking up from the map he had pulled out and spread in front of him. 

“What about Tyelko or Moryo? You don't need them here, per say. One of them could come with me,” Makalaurë pressed. Tyelko had a much more imposing physique than Makalaurë’s willowy frame. Years out in nature had made Tyelko muscular and strong as well as a shrewd judge of situations. Moryo, too, was a logical choice as he drove a hard bargain and didn’t back down from an argument, no matter his opponent. But Nelyo didn’t trust either of to attempt peaceful negotiations, not so soon after their father’s death. 

“I’d rather send him our terms of surrender. You’re going Laurë alone, that’s final,” Nelyo responded. The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Nelyo finally looked up at his younger brother. The minstrel was pacing restlessly like a caged animal, his expressive face twisted in a look of deep contemplation and frustration. After a few moments, Makalaurë finally noticed his brother staring at him. 

“You don't think....I just…I have a bad feeling,” he stammered, looking frustrated with his inability to articulate what he was feeling, a novel experience for one who’s craft revolved around words. Locking eyes with his brother, Nelyo could see the conflict swirling in Makalaurë’s grey eyes. 

“Me too, but this may be our only chance to get back the Silmarils,” Nelyo admitted. 

“Are they really worth all of this Nelyo?” 

“Atto though so.” 

“Screw what Atto thought. Think about it Nelyo, their just jewels. Are they really worth all this blood?”

“Yes, they **are** worth every last drop of blood spent on achieving them. How can you think other wise? Even Ambarto would have agreed that they are worth it,” Nelyo shot back without thinking, fist pounding on the table to emphasize his point. He was frustrated with his younger brother. Why on Eä couldn’t Makalaurë see how important the Silmarils were? Their father had sacrificed everything for them. Nelyo was pulled out of his frustration when the air in the tent shifted at the mention of Ambarto. Makalaurë had stiffened at the low blow, his jaw clenched as an angry flush crept into his pale cheeks. 

At Losgar, Ambarto and a few others had remained on the boats. Their plan had been to sail back to Aman the next day. Pityo had been on shore at the time, as he was unable to sleep on the ships due to the rocking motion, but he planed to join his brother after he had slept. Fate showed her cruel hand before their plan could work. Later that night, Fëanor, in a fit of anger at his eldest son’s suggestion to send the boats back, had ordered the ships to be torched. No one but Pityo knew that his twin lay asleep on the boat. 

When Pityo woken up screaming and racing frantically towards the beach, Makalaurë had paused and turned to their youngest brother. He had stopped Pityo from racing down to the ships, thinking he merely upset. However, as he listened to Pityo’s frantic begging, he realized what was wrong. Shoving Pityo into Nelyo’s arms, he had dashed back to the boats. However he had been too late, Ambarto had burned to death before he had reached the boats. Despite everyone’s protests, Makalaurë still blamed himself for the death of their brother. 

Nelyo realized what he had said too late and desperately tried to backpedal. 

“Laurë, I didn’t mean-” 

“No, it’s fine, I’ll go!” Makalaurë threw his hands up in frustration, glaring at the oldest Fëanorion, “No need to resort to emotional blackmail.” 

Nelyo resisted the urge to hug his brother, know it would likely antagonize Makalaurë even more. Makalaurë donned his cloak with more violence then necessary, pulling it on with angry jerks. He snatched the letter from Nelyo’s desk without looking at his brother. 

“I just hope you’re right Nelyo or we’re all doomed,” Makalaurë growled with a dark scowl that rivaled Moryo's as he left the tent. Nelyo watched the flap swish close after him. 

“I hope so too, Laurë, I hope so too,” Nelyo murmured, raking a hand through his red hair. He turned back to the map and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind. 


	3. March on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues on, it is your choice whether you will let it pass you by or make the best with what you have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I am using primarily the character's Quenyan names. Here's a quick reference so you don't get lost.  
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo = Maedhros  
> Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm  
> Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir  
> Curvo = Curufin  
> Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras  
> Tyelpe/Telperinquar = Celebrimbor  
> Amë = mother in Quenyan, in this case referring to Nerdandel

They all felt Makalaurë’s death, but Nelyo felt it the most. Makalaurë had always been his silent support and now he was gone. He wasn’t there offering a comforting embrace when Nelyo had to break the news to their other brothers. He didn’t swagger over with that goofy smile on his face when Nelyo lit the memorial fire and tell his older brother not to be so morose. He didn’t come storming in and demand to know what his brothers were doing when Nelyo and Pityo cleaned out his tent. Nelyo ended up keeping Makalaurë’s harp. His brother had loved that instrument and Nelyo didn’t have the heart to give it away. Cleaning out Makalaurë’s room was the closest Nelyo let himself get to grieving for their lost brother. He forced himself to go about masking his emotions and pretending it didn't hurt. He couldn't afford to be weak; he owed his people that much. 

Tyelko often rode out alone, a whirlwind of destruction slaughtering any Orc he came across. There were seldom times he returned without their black blood staining his blade. Curvo grew more volatile and frequently locked himself in the makeshift forge, refusing to talk to anyone save Tyelpe and occasionally Tyelko. More than once Nelyo heard him screaming at and cursing the Valar, demanding to know why they took their revenge on Makalaurë. Pityo drifted aimlessly around the camp. With the death of his favorite brother, he had grown listless. His gaze was often far away and his face twisted in grief. Moryo, surprisingly enough, slowly took Makalaurë’s place. He wasn’t as patient or levelheaded as Makalaurë, but he out of all the others was willing to help with the responsibilities of the camp. He would often sit for hours, sifting through reports and numbers as though he found comfort in the neat lines, monotonous of writing. 

A few months after the discovery of the slaughter, a messenger from Morgoth appeared outside the camp, carrying a message for Nelyo. The Orc was let into the camp under heavy guard. Nelyo gathered his remaining brothers before greeting the emissary. Nelyo looked around at them, feeling the hole in his heart. Moryo was trying his best to emulate Nelyo's stoic demeanor, but was failing miserably. Tyelko stood protectively between his brothers and the door while Pityo slouched in the corner a pale and miserable wreak. Curvo arrived late, per usual, still dirty from the forge with Tyelpe trailing behind him like a shadow. 

"Why are you letting it into the camp?" Curvo demanded without preamble, marching over to Nelyo, “It could be a spy or assassin.” 

Before Nelyo could answer, the Orc was led into the tent. The creature was large and more intelligent looking than most other Orcs. It reminded Nelyo of the Orc who had delivered Morgoth’s terms for a treaty just months before

"I have a message for the "king" of the Noldor," the creature’s voice was raspy and grating, thick with sarcasm when he named Nelyo’s title. Nelyo wearily gestured for him to continue. 

"My master, Lord Morgoth has no wish for open war, yet you sent an armed escort to a talk of peace. However, my lord is merciful. He is willing to put aside your warmongering and forget past grievances if you abide by his terms: you are to relinquish any claim to the Silmarils and you will come no farther East, dwelling either here, turning south or returning to Aman." 

"My answer is no," Nelyo responded without even thinking about it. The Orc smirked. 

"My master suspected as much. If you were resistant, I was commanded to tell you that if you do not comply, your brother will suffer."

"My brother?" Nelyo’s voice was dangerously low. He dreaded the answer, but wanted to know it all the same. The other Elves in the tent shifted uneasily. The Orc's smile widened as he saw the discomfort he was causing. 

"The sad, dark-haired one; Kanafinwë I believe he said his name was." 

"Kanafinwë is dead. Morgoth slaughter him and his guards at the peace treaty," Moryo snarled back before Nelyo could answer. Orc simply held out a lock of hair for Nelyo to look at. It was dark in color and bound with a leather thong, but besides that had no distinguishing elements. The Elves started at it unimpressed. 

"And what is that supposed to be?" Nelyo demanded, arching an eyebrow. 

"Proof that your precious brother is still alive," the Orc shrugged, "I see why he’s known as the Singer. His voice is so beautiful when he is screaming in agony. How long do you think he’ll survive before he’s begging for the mercy of death?"

The momentary silence that followed was poisonous. Then it erupted into frenzied action. Tyelko and Tyelpe lunged forward to each take one of Moryo’s arms as the red-faced Elf went to draw his sword. Moryo struggled and growled like a feral animal, but they didn’t let go. Nelyo reminded impassive for a long after his brothers had somewhat calmed. A look of resolve slowly settled on his face as he came to a decision. Valar forgive him for what he was about to do. 

"This proves nothing!" Nelyo threw the lock of hair down onto his desk, his eyes burning bright, "Go back to your master and tell him this: the sons of Fëanor will not relinquish their Oath nor will they turn tail and flee. We will have our own."

The tent seemed to darken as Nelyo spoke. The Orc shrunk back in fear before fleeing the tent. The Elves in the tent watched the flap swish after his hasty retreat. 

"So when do we go?" Tyelko’s face was grim and there was a fell light in his eyes. His hand rested on his sword hilt as he stood poised by the tent flap like a hunting dog awaiting the command to track its prey.

"We’re not," Nelyo ground out. His brothers turned to stare at him. Their expression ranged from horrified in the case of Pityo to furious in the case of Tyelko to disbelief in the case of the others. 

"What do you mean?" Tyelko took a threatening step towards his older brother.

"I mean, no one is going after him, for rescue or parley. I will not have you sacrifice yourselves on a fool’s errand. We do nothing. As your king, that’s an order," Nelyo glared at his younger brothers to drive home the point. His cold demeanor was one they had never seen turned on them nor had Nelyo ever resorted to rank pulling. There was a stunned silence in the tent. 

"But Maitimo, what if Kano _is_ still alive?" Pityo’s voice was hoarse as he gently fingered the lock of hair he had picked up from Nelyo’s desk. 

"I doubt he is," Nelyo clenched his jaw, hating himself, "And even if he was, there is no way Morgoth would have returned him to us alive. More likely than not he would have returned us a corpse."

"But supposing he is, we just sentenced him to a fate worse than death," Pityo protested. 

"If he was somehow still alive," Nelyo’s voice was soft as he massaged his temples in hopes of alleviating his growing migraine, "Then I wish a quick and painless death upon him for that will be his only escape." 

"How can you be so callus?" Tyelko snarled. 

"You think I want him to suffer? You think I want him dead? He’s my little brother. Do you think I want him gone?" Nelyo choked out. The tumult of emotions in his body was squeezing his throat making it hard to swallow. 

"Well, you’re ready to just leave him-"

"I don’t have a choice."

"You’re wrong! Like Amë said, there is always a choice! We could-"

"We could what Tyelko?" Nelyo demanded, "Knock on the gates of Angband and demand that Morgoth release our brother, **IF** he’s still alive? Or maybe you would rather challenge the Dark Lord to single combat with out brother’s life as the prize?"

Tyelko fidgeted guiltily, clearly that was exactly what he was thinking of.

"My point is there’s nothing we can do to get him back. He’s… gone," Nelyo’s voice broke. 


	4. Of ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I am using primarily the character's Quenyan names. Here's a quick reference so you don't get lost.  
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo/Russandol = Maedhros  
> Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Turkafinwë = Celegorm  
> Carnister/Moryo/Morifinwë = Caranthir  
> Curvo = Curufin  
> Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras  
> Tyelpe/Telperinquar = Celebrimbor  
> Nolofinwë = Fingolfin  
> Findekáno = Fingon

_Nelyo looked around frantically, unsure of where he was. He was in a dungeon of sorts, but that was all he could tell. The torches hanging on the walls barely seemed to penetrate the suffocating darkness. Looking around he could see instruments of torture hanging on the wall. The sight sickened him. One solitary door led out of the room. After hesitating a moment, Nelyo pushed it open._

_The scene on the other side was horrific. Morgoth towered over a body suspended from the ceiling, whipping it mercilessly. Nelyo froze, but the Dark Lord took no notice of him, solely focused on his victim._

_"Give up,” the Vala hissed, “They’re not coming for you."_

_"I... *cough* ...I don’t believe you," gasped a voice Nelyo had not heard in years. Disregarding the danger at hand, Nelyo crept around to look at the front of Morgoth’s victim. His heart stopped as the face came into view and his fears were confirmed. It was Makalaurë. The whip lashed out again and Makalaurë’s face contorted in pain._

_"You’re brother’s abandoned you to my devices. They don’t care about you; they only care about the Silmarils and their own safety. You were the expendable one," Morgoth taunted, staring off into the shadows where Nelyo stood concealed as though he knew Nelyo stood there. Nelyo ashamed at how deep those words cut him. The whip was replaced by red-hot brands. Makalaurë screamed and writhed every time the iron was press onto his mutilated skin. His voice soon became hoarse._

_"I don’t-"_

_"You don’t believe me? So you’ve said before," Morgoth drawled, coming around to Makalaurë’s front, he grabbed the Elf’s chin and forced his head up, "But tell me Kanafinwë, when did you stop believing it?"_

_Makalaurë didn’t answer, but his face had gone a shade paler than it already had been. Morgoth smirked as his accusation was affirmed._

_"The best part is seeing your own doubts tear you apart, bit by bit. You are broken Kanafinwë. You are mine," the Vala spat, drawing away and letting Makalaurë’s head drop limply back against his chest._

_"Not broken… Not yours…. They never forgot me…. You would never understand….You are…. You are all alone…." Makalaurë’s voice was so faint that Nelyo barely heard it. The look on Morgoth’s face was evident that he heard as well. Morgoth made his way over to the far wall._

_"As much I’ve enjoyed our time together, I’m afraid it’s drawing to a close," Morgoth turned around holding a silver blade that Nelyo recognized, "This was your father’s, you know. He would be so proud that it finally is being put to good use."_

_Makalaurë’s face twisted in an odd look of relief and horror. Without preamble, Morgoth thrust the blade through Makalaurë’s chest where his heart lay. Makalaurë’s body shuddered once, twice, three times, before going still as his fëa fled. Morgoth ripped the sword back out of Makalaurë’s body and watched with amusement as blood flowed unhindered to the floor, collecting in a pool around Makalaurë’s feet. Then he turned and left the cell, leaving Nelyo alone with his brother’s corpse._

_Nelyo stood there in shock for several long minutes before he tentatively approached his brother's body. He reached out and touched Makalaurë’s cooling cheek, lifting his head gently. Makalaurë grey eyes stared sightlessly ahead while a trickle of blood meandered out of the corner of his mouth. Nelyo’s vision blurred with tears._

_"Nelyo, why didn’t you rescue me?" Makalaurë’s voice asked. Nelyo jerked back, unsure where the voice was coming from._

_"I didn’t know you were alive," Nelyo protested, looking around wildly to find the source of the voice, but he saw no one. A wet, choked laugh echoed around the dark room._

_"You knew! Deep in your heart, you always knew," the voice accused, "Why Nelyo? Why?"_

When Nelyo awoke with a start, the sun was just coming up over the mountains. He discovered that he was shaking and covered in cold sweat. Throwing off the covers, Nelyo staggered to his office. Hand fumbling, he grabbed the decanter off the decorative side table and poured himself a glass of the strong liquor. The glass shook violently in his hand, sloshing some of the alcohol over the rim. Downing the whole shot in one gulp, he spluttered as it burned the back of his throat and made his eyes water. The alcohol did nothing to help his nerves, the dream still haunted his waking eyes. Still shaking, he poured himself another round. He stared deep into the colorless liquid, debating whether or not the migraine later was worth it. He shrugged and lifted the glass to his lips. Before he could drink it however, someone spoke from behind him. 

"Are you drinking?" Tyelko’s voice startled Nelyo badly enough that he dropped the glass in his hand. It hit the floor and shattered, scattering glass and alcohol. They both stared at the mess for a moment. 

"I though you swore off alcohol after… I mean, I know Curvo drinks pretty heavily sometimes, but I never thought…. What happened Maitimo?" Tyelko’s gaze was full of worry, something was clearly wrong with the eldest Fëanorion. He side stepped the mess on the floor and steered Nelyo to a chair. Nelyo sunk down limply, eye somewhat glazed. Tyelko crouched in front of him. He looked like he wanted to beg for information, but he held his tongue and waited for Nelyo to speak. 

"He’s still alive," Nelyo finally rasped. 

"Who’s still alive?"

"Makalaurë," Nelyo said. Tyelko stiffened, his face became very guarded. 

"How do you know that?" He demanded, voice stilted. 

"I dreamed about him last night," Nelyo admitted, running a hand through his mussed hair. Tyelko’s posture relaxed slightly. He put a hand on Nelyo’s shoulder and squeezed gently. His eyes were sad. 

"Nelyo, it’s been over thirty years. You need to let go. He’s gone," Tyelko’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, almost like when he was trying to talk down an injured animal. Nelyo hated how condescending the tone was; he wasn’t a child. He irritably shrugged off his brother's hand. 

"No! I saw him, he’s still alive. He wanted to know why we never rescued him."

"Curse Nolofinwë and Findekáno," Tyelko growled, drawing back from his brother and pacing agitatedly, "This is all their fault, isn’t it? They brought this about asking after Makalaurë. They had no right to pry for information."

"They didn’t know," Nelyo pointed out. 

"They still had no right!" Tyelko slammed a fist down onto the table to emphasize his point, "I’ll kill them."

"Tyelko! Tyelkormo! Calm down!" Nelyo drew a hand across his face, "Slaying out kin was bad enough the first time. Doing it a second time will gain us nothing but further damnation." 

"Like you even care," Tyelko’s voice raised to a point that made Nelyo’s head throb, "You were all for following Atto’s orders and keeping Atto’s Oath. May I point out that you were the first to swear his Oath. And don’t tell me it’s immoral to kill because you never had anymore aversion to killing than the rest of us. Why the benevolent change of heart? Is it because Findekáno might get killed? You don’t want your best friend’s blood on our hands? Or are you afraid that it will cause you more nightmares?"

"That’s enough Tyelkormo Turkafinwë!" Nelyo snapped. Tyelko looked somewhat chastened, but he still scowled. 

"Can’t you keep it down?" a sleepy Moryo growled, poking his head in through the open door, "The sun’s not ever fully up yet and I already have to listen to the two of you… Nelyo, were you drinking?" 

"Yes, he was," Tyelko answered for Nelyo, then before Moryo could ask why he continued, "Nightmare about Maka. Thank Nolofinwë and Findekáno." 

Moryo’s face darkened as his brows drew together and he turned to the oldest brother. 

"Nelyo? Is that true?" he asked as he fully came into the room. Nelyo sighed, there was no getting out of the intervention now. He didn’t want to dwell on the nightmare any more, but he might as well suck it up and get it over with. 

"Yes, I had a nightmare about Makalaurë," he avoided looking at both his brothers, "It was…. I think he’s still alive."

Moryo and Tyelko shared a look they thought Nelyo couldn’t see. It was the same look he and Makalaurë had shared whenever Curvo ran to them convinced there was a monster under his bed. 

"Nelyo, you don’t have prophetic dreams. Its just the result of your mind trying to deal with the trauma of thinking about Makalaurë again," Moryo meant to be comforting, but Nelyo didn’t find it so. He slumped back farther in his chair feeling ages older than he was. 

"Russandol?" In Nelyo's exhausted gaze, Moryo’s face morphed into Makalaurë’s face. Nelyo’s composure finally crumpled. 

"It’s all my fault," Nelyo’s voice was barely a whisper. Someone embraced him. 

"No! That’s not true and you know it! All of this is Morgoth’s fault," Moryo’s voice came in his ear. 

"I miss him," Nelyo admitted. Another pair of arms encircled him. 

"Us too," Tyelko murmured. 


	5. Shock to the System

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am using the character's Quenyan name. Here is a short list to reference:  
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo/Russandol = Maedhros  
> Makalaurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Trukafinwë = Celegorm  
> Moryo/Morifinwë/Carnistir = Caranthir  
> Curvo/Curufinwê = Curufin  
> Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras  
> Turukáno/Turu = Turgon  
> Findekáno/Finno = Fingon  
> Finderáto = Finrod  
> Nolofinwë = Fingolfin  
> Irissë = Aredhel

Nelyo dismounted his horse with ease, handing the reigns off to a stable boy. His ride out in the brisk morning air had been refreshing. Frost gleamed in the pale morning light and birds twittered in the trees. Not many were awake at this hour so Nelyo relished every moment of solitude. The peace however was not to last. Nelyo hadn’t even taken off his heavy riding cloak when a stressed servant hurried up to him.  
“The lords Finderáto and Turukáno arrived while you were out and are now waiting for you to return,” the servant bowed as he delivered the message.  
“Where?” Nelyo sighed. Just what he wanted this morning: dealing with two of his cousins. Finderáto was tolerable if not overly cheerful, but he had been closer with Makalaurë, so Nelyo felt a little awkward around him without his younger brother. Turukáno, on the other hand, was a real problem. Since the rejoining of the Noldor hosts in Arda, Turukáno made no effort to hide his scorn and distain towards the sons of Fëanor. His only contribution to any given conversation with his cousins tended to be biting remarks accompanied by glowering silence. It was unusual that it was these two who came over. Typically it was Findekáno who visited the Fëanorion camp, occasionally accompanied by his younger sister Irissë.  
  
“They are in your office with my lord Curufinwë,” the servant reported. Nelyo felt the blood drain out of his face. Even back in Valinor, Curvo and Turu didn’t particularly like each other. Nelyo hurried to his office, desperately hoping that open war had not resulted from Turu and Curvo sharing the same room. When he arrived, he was mildly surprised to see everything was still intact and neither that Turukáno nor Curvo were sporting injuries from a tussle. Curvo stood stiff as a board behind Nelyo’s desk glaring at Turukáno. Turukáno was warily returning the glare from where he stood behind Finderáto. Finderáto stood awkwardly between the two, acting like a buffer and looking like he would rather be anywhere else in all of Eä. They all looked over in surprise and relief when Nelyo burst through the door.   
  
“Nelyo! You’re here at last!” Finderáto moved to hug his cousin, then dropped his arms as he remember protocol, “I mean, your highness. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting…"  
Nelyo waived aside Finderáto’s apology and gave his easy going cousin a hearty embrace, much to the displeasure of both Curvo and Turukáno.  
“What brings you around the lake?” Nelyo asked, dropping all formality. His weary smile was greeted by Finderáto’s brilliant one.  
“Nolofinwë and Findekáno have requested your presence. They say it is urgent.”  
“Why?” Curvo snapped, speaking for the first time now. Turukáno stiffened at his acerbic tone, hand straying to his sword hilt. Finderáto’s smile faded and was replaced by a sad look. Not for the first time did Nelyo realize how similar Makalaurë and Finderáto were; they faces were so expressive that it was often hard for them to hide their thoughts.  
“They want to discuss it with you in person,” was Finderáto cryptic responded. Nelyo waited for a moment, but the golden haired Elf refused to elaborate.  
“I’ll come,” Nelyo decided when it was clear no more information was forthcoming, “Meet me down at the stable in a few moments.”  
Finderáto and Turukáno both nodded their assent before leaving the room. Curvo remained behind, glowering at Nelyo.  
“Why are you going?” He demanded as Nelyo opened a trunk a began rummaging around for things he would need.  
“Because they are our kin. They obviously need something desperately for them to send Finderáto and Turukáno,” Nelyo responded pulling out a small satchel with writing instruments. He didn’t know what he was need for, so he was going to be prepared for anything.  
“Yes, but you have no idea what they want. It could be a trap. You didn’t think it was a trap when you sent Maka and look how that ended,” Curvo snarled. Nelyo stiffened at the mention of their missing brother.  
“I don’t think they are going to kill me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Nelyo slammed the chest lid with a little more force than necessary. Curvo open his mouth to protest.  
“Don’t even think about charging in after me as some misguided attempt for you to be a hero. If you haven’t received any word from me in seven days, you can send Moryo to investigate,” Nelyo commanded his younger brother. Curvo’s face was a murderous scowl, but he didn’t protest Nelyo’s wishes. Nelyo swept out of the room leaving Curvo to stew in silence.  
  
Ten minutes later, Nelyo, Finderáto and Turukáno had started out on the long ride around Lake Mithrim. Not for the first time did Nelyo wish the camps weren’t so far apart. The sun had melted away most of the frost and made the air a chilly, but pleasant temperature. Finderáto rode next to Nelyo chatting halfhearedly about mundane, everyday life while Turukáno rode behind the two of them watched Nelyo’s every move like a hawk. Nelyo wasn’t sure which made him more uncomfortable: emotionless Turukáno’s open disgust and hostility or cheerful Finderáto’s unusually subdued and mildly depressed body language.  
  
The closer they got to the Nolofinwëon camp, the higher tensions rose. Finderáto had ceased talking altogether and now sat somewhat hunched in his saddle looking forlorn and incredibly small. Turukáno wore his cold mask once again he sat stiffly in his saddle. His ire was hidden carefully from view, save for his eyes which still glowed with wroth. Nelyo rode awkwardly between them, feeling less and less comfortable.  
  
By the time Nolofinwë’s banners came into view, Nelyo was resisting the urge to turn around and gallop back the way they’d come. Turukáno seemed to sense his unease and rode up on his other side, hemming Nelyo in between his two cousins. They rode through the camp and came to stopped in front of a small tent. Nelyo was confused. This was not the royal tent, nor a tent belonging to any of his kin. Finderáto quickly dismounted and strode into the tent. Nelyo went to follow, but before he could enter the tent, he found his way barred by Turukáno.  
  
“For the record, I don’t think you should even be here,” Turukáno hissed in a low voice, his eyes flashing, “You don’t deserve to see him. First you left us, then you left him. Have you no shame?”  
“What are you talking about?” Nelyo was thoroughly confused.  
Before Turukáno could answer, Finderáto reappeared out of the tent followed by Findekáno. Nelyo did a double take of his favorite cousin. Findekáno looked worn and tired, lines of stress standing out starkly on his pale face. Nelyo felt concern pooling in his stomach.  
“Finno, what happened?”  
Findekáno didn’t answer but motioned for them to go back in the tent. It took Nelyo’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior. When they did, Nelyo noticed his uncle sitting on a low stood next to a cot piled high with blankets. Nolofinwë only looked marginally better then his oldest son. Before Nelyo could again ask what was going on, Nolofinwë moved aside, revealing the figure on the bed. Nelyo froze, staring in disbelief at his brother’s body.  
  
Makalaurë lay motionless in the bed. He was pale and gaunt with papery skin stretched taught over his bones. His cheeks were sunken and flushed unhealthily with fever. His hair was unevenly chopped near his jawline. What really caught Nelyo’s attention were the bandages. They were crisp and white, though some places were spotted with old blood. They encompassed his neck and peaked out from under the blanket that was pulled up almost to his shoulders.  
  
Dazed, Nelyo stumbled over to the bed. He was almost afraid to touch his long lost brother. Makalaurë looked fragile enough that a single touch might shatter him.  
“Where did…. How did you…..How bad is it?” Nelyo asked, stumbling over his words in his shock. Findekáno hesitated before answering.  
“Bad,” Findekáno’s voice was soft, “They healers are surprised he is still alive. He lost a lot of blood when I cut him free.”  
“Cut him free?” Nelyo regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. Findekáno’s face twisted in a look guilt and sorrow.  
“He…. Morgoth chained him to the front cliff face of Thangorodrim. I couldn’t break them. I had to… I had to…I’m sorry..."  
Findekádo trailed off as he pulled back the blanket. The damage he was referring to quickly became apparent. Makalaurë’s right arm was bound to his bandage wrapped chest. His shoulder was grossly swollen and his hand was gone, cut off halfway down his forearm. The stump of his arm was tightly wrapped and the bandages were stained with fresh blood.  
“What happened? Please tell me,” Nelyo begged. The look that Findekáno gave him, made him feel sick.


	6. Findekáno's Story, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just how did Makaluarë end up in the Nolofinwëon camp?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am using the character's Quenyan name. Here is a short list to reference:  
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo/Russandol = Maedhros  
> Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Tyelko/Tyelkormo/Trukafinwë = Celegorm  
> Moryo/Morifinwë/Carnistir = Caranthir  
> Curvo/Curufinwë = Curufin  
> Pityo/Pitafinwë = Amras  
> Turukáno/Turu = Turgon  
> Findekáno/Finno = Fingon  
> Finderáto = Finrod  
> Nolofinwë = Fingolfin  
> Irissë = Aredhel  
> Arantis = Galadriel  
> Arakáno = Argon  
> Artaresto = Orodreth

_Some weeks earlier..._

“The King will see you now,” The sentry gave a low bow. 

“Finally! It's taken him long enough, that high-and-mighty, pigheaded, Oath-swearing, ungrateful Noldor,” Nolofinwë grumbled. Findekáno had to agree with his father. They had been waiting for quiet some time and Findekáno found that the longer they stood around waiting, the more nasty things he though of to say to his uncle. The guard ushered them into the rough building and through several doors. When they finally arrived in a sort of official looking office, they stopped short in surprise. The figure seated inside was not Fëanor. Findekáno found that he was looking at his cousin Nelyo instead. The redhead looked aged and tired, lines were etched deep into his face around the frown that graced his features. Next to him, Moryo was gathering up some loose parchment off of a low table. 

“Nelyo? But….I thought…..Where is…?” Nolofinwë trailed off, his anger at his brother fading into confusion at seeing his oldest nephew on the throne. Nelyo didn't seem the least bit surprised at their confusion. 

“My father is dead,” Nelyo’s voice was oddly devoid of any emotion, “He died by wounds from an ambush by the servants of Morgoth.” 

“Oh…” was all Nolofinwë could say for quiet some time. 

“We are sorry for your loss,” Findekáno added awkwardly. Nelyo nodded his head in acknowledgment.

“What do you need?” Nelyo asked flatly after they had been standing around silently for an awkward amount of time.

“An apology, to start,” Nolofinwë demanded, the shock of his half-brother's death making his voice gruff, “and an explanation as to why you abandoned us in Aman.”

“I apologize then on behalf of my people. A madness gripped my father and he would not be reasoned with.” 

“That’s all you have to say? Your family forced me to lead my people across the Helcaraxë and you try to sooth the hurts with paltry words. You really are your father’s son. Have you nothing to give in recompense for what we suffered? A third of my people perished!” 

“I apologize again, but you will get no pity from me. You were not they only one to have suffered. I lost my father and two of my brothers,” Nelyo snapped, before drawing a hand across his face, “I’m sorry, Uncle, I shouldn’t have snapped.” 

“Two of your brothers?” Findekáno asked, hesitantly. The Helcaraxë had been a living nightmare, but he was starting to wonder if that had been the easier road. At least his father and siblings were still alive. 

“Ambarto and Makalaurë,” Nelyo looked down at his hands. Findekáno could see that they were shaking. Whatever had occurred had affected Nelyo deeply. 

“What happened to them?” The question was out before Findekáno thought better of it. 

“Ambarto was burned to death by accident at Losgar,” Nelyo mumbled, giving bare minimum details. He clenched his hands in an effort to stop them from shaking. It didn’t make a difference. 

“And Makalaurë?” 

Nelyo didn’t answer the question, his gaze full of pain and far away. Moryo looked at Nelyo for a moment before answering Findekáno’s question. 

“He was…. ambushed by Morgoth nearly thirty years ago. We don’t know what fate befell him, but most likely he is… dead,” Moryo’s voice broke on the last word. The silence stretched on for an awkward amount of time. 

“Nelyo?” Moryo shook his brother’s shoulder slightly. The redhead didn’t react, still lost in his memories. 

“Leave us,” Moryo snapped, turning to Nolofinwë and Findekáno. 

“As my liege wishes,” Nolofinwë mockingly bowed before they left the room. They made their way back to their camp. As soon as they arrived they were waylaid by Turukáno and Finderáto. 

“What did Fëanor say? You were gone for quiet some time,” Finderáto asked. Nolofinwë told him in no short order what had occurred. 

“I kill them those heartless sons of Orcs,” Turukáno snarled. 

“Turukáno! Participating in one kinslaying was far too much, I will not have you participating in a second one,” Nolofinwë reprimanded. 

Nolofinwëans had moved across the lake, but tensions did not ease. Almost all contact between the two camps ceased after Arantis and Artaresto almost came to blows with Tyelko and Curvo. Findekáno was tired of the fighting. He started roaming in the planes around their camp, going gradually farther and farther afield. Nolofinwë grumbled to him about it, but did nothing to stop him. 

Tempers ran high amongst Findekáno’s siblings as well. Turukáno want to seize the throne from Nelyo, claiming their cousin was mentally unfit to rule. Arakáno, ever Turukáno’s shadow, agreed with their tall brother. Iressë, on the other hand, swung wildly back and forth; one day hating the Fëanorions, the next day wholeheartedly supporting them. Findekáno tried not to get caught up in their spats, but when pressed he supported his cousins. Turukáno frequently gave him a difficult time for his opinion. 

After one particularly vicious fight with Turukáno, Findekáno took a store of supplies and set off into the wilderness. After three full weeks of aimless wondering, Findekáno found himself at the base of Thangorodrim. It was nowhere like Findekáno had ever been before. Evil seemed to permeate the very air, choking the life out of anything good. The Fortress looked deserted in the midmorning sun. 

As he stood there looking at Morgoth’s layer, something swaying in the wind caught Findekáno’s eye. He peered at the cliff face above him. There, high above his head, hung a body. Findekáno squinted. He couldn’t make out the face, but the shape of the body was beyond a shadow of a doubt Elven. There was only one Elf that Findekáno knew was unaccounted for: Makalaurë. 

“MAKA? MAKA?” Findekáno yelled up. Though the body above him gave no indication of hearing him, Findekáno knew it had to be his cousin. Findekáno could see that Makalaurë’s chest was barely rising and falling. He hung limply from his right wrist while his body was buffeted in the wind swirling around the peak. Findekáno paced the bottom of the cliff looking for a way up, but the cliff face was smooth and offered no handholds or crevasses.

After an hour of fruitless searching, Findekáno sunk down on a rock. He felt warm from the sun despite the brisk wind that chapped his lips and hands. He could only imagine was the exposure was doing to Makalaurë. He surveyed the cliff from where he sat. Findekáno didn’t want to abandon his cousin, but there was no way up. He fingered his bow, one of the many weapons he had brought with him. Makalaurë was already so close to death, maybe it would be better to free his fëa from his torment. He nearly threw his bow down in disgust. What would he have said when he got back? _So I went on a stroll to the enemy stronghold and I found our missing cousin. I couldn’t free him, so I killed him._

Indecision tore him. As he sat there a shadow fell across him. His head jerked up. Towering above him was one of Manwë's great eagles. 


	7. Findekáno’s Story, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am using the character's Quenyan name. Here is a short list to reference:  
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwë/Maitimo/Russandol = Maedhros  
> Makalaurë/Laurë/Kano/Kanafinwë = Maglor  
> Turukáno/Turu = Turgon  
> Findekáno/Finno = Fingon  
> Finderáto = Finrod  
> Nolofinwë = Fingolfin  
> 

Findekáno gulped as he looked up into the eagle's noble face. He had often seen the majestic birds venturing to or from Taniquetil back in Aman. He now realize they were much bigger than he though. The lordly bird watched him like he was a scrawny rabbit. It then turned its head away and bent its neck down to the ground. Findekáno stood there, watching as the bird was frozen in the bizarre position. The eagle looked like it was waiting for something, but what Findekáno didn’t know. The eagle finally straightened up and turned its unforgiving stare at Findekáno once more. Before Findekáno could react, the large beak darted out and snatched him up. He hung there for a moment before he was tossed into the air. Findekáno was later loath to admit it but he scream in fear. To his surprise, he landed not in the eagle’s maw as he though he would, but on the creature’s back.  
  
Findekáno lay there panting with adrenaline, waiting for the bird to realize it had over tossed its prey. The eagle merely shook itself slightly before taking off into the air. Findekáno clung to the feathers as they sailed up into the sky. The eagle swooped back to the cliff face, settling on a tiny ledge. Findekáno looked over in surprise. The precarious perch placed him right next Makalaurë. Once he was sure that eagle wasn't going to move for the time being, Findekáno scrambled over to his cousin’s body and shuddered.  
  
Up close, Makalaurë looked even worse than Findekáno feared. Findekáno saw that his right shoulder was forced out of joint from bearing all of his weight. His dark hair was matted and cut short. He was covered in dirt, bruises, cuts, burns as well as blood both fresh and dried. The remains of his tattered trousers, if that is what one could call them any more, hung loosely off of his hips and offered him little modesty. Findekáno could count all of the ribs in his emaciated chest. As he drew near, he noticed a strange whistling, gurgling noise. It took Findekáno a moment to figure out where it was coming from. A nasty gash ran down the front of Makalaurë’s throat. With every inhale and exhale, the skin shifted as air escaped through the cut. Slits of grey eyes watched him exhaustedly. Findekáno realized in horror, Makalaurë hardly had the strength to open his eyes; he was fading fast. Findekáno knew he had to work quickly if Makalaurë was to survive.  
  
“Hold on, Maka. I’ll get you free, then we can go see your brothers. They miss you, you know. Nelyo cut his hair, but not nearly as short as yours,” Findekáno babbled as he set about trying to freeing his cousin from the iron cuff and chain that fastened him to the cliff. As gently as he could, he braced Makalaurë’s body against the cliff to make it easier to reach the restraints on the right arm. Makalaurë’s face twisted in pain at the pressure, but he offered no protest. Findekáno inspected the cruel device holding his cousin. The cuff and chain were made out of a sort of black iron he had never seen before. The cuff was fastened tight enough around Makalaurë’s right wrist that the skin beneath it was torn raw. The chain was designed in such a way that Makalaurë’s body swung whenever the wind blew, leaving bloody streaks where his back rubbed against the rock face.  
  
Findekáno started with the locking mechanism on the manacle. He had never been good at picking locks, despite Nelyo's tutelage on breaking into annoying brother's rooms. The lock remanded stubbornly shut no matter what he did. Makalaurë watched him for a little while before his eyes lost their focus and nearly fluttered closed. His breathing was labored and shallow. It rang hauntingly in Findekáno’s ears as he moved on to the point that chain was fastened to the cliff. Findekáno worked for a long time, but he only succeeded in making his fingers bleed and dulling one of his knives as he gouged at the immovable rock face. The longer he was around it, the more he noticed that the chain reeked dark magic. There was no power in Arda that would be able to break it, loose it or pull it from the cliff face. Heart sinking, Findekáno knew what he had to do. Morgoth really was cruel.  
  
“Forgive me Maka. I’m sorry,” Findekáno felt tears streaming down his face. He grabbed out his long hunting knife. It was a beautiful blade that Turukáno had gifted him years ago. He always kept it sharp. Now he hoped it was sharp enough to do what he needed without causing too much pain. Grasping the knife, Findekáno closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Upon opening them again, he saw that Makalaurë's eyes re-focused enough to watch his cousin in a daze, not really comprehending what Findekáno was going to do.

Gritting his teeth, Findekáno brought his knife down with as much force as he could muster. His stroke was stopped as the blade hit bone. A soundless cry forced its way through Makakalurë's chapped lips as he mercifully lost consciousness. Despite mentally preparing himself, Findekáno’s stomach roiled at the sight of so much slick crimson blood quickly coating his hands and he nearly lost his nerve to continue. Swallowing back his bile, Findekáno finished severing Makalaurë’s hand off. He was taken somewhat by surprise when Makalaurë’s dead weight, free from the cliff face, toppled onto him. Only his Elven reflexes stopped his cousin from plummeting to the ground below far below. The great eagle, sensing the extra weight on his back, took off into the sky.  
  
While they flew, Findekáno wrapped his cloak around Makalaurë's injured limb, fastening it in place tightly with his belt and making a crude tourniquet in an attempt to stem the blood. He then took his mostly empty water skin and attempted to drip a little water into his cousin’s mouth. He got some in, but the dark-haired Elf choked on it causing diluted blood to run out of his mouth and the gash on his neck as he coughed. Makalaurë continued to hack and gasp for breath for quiet some time. For the rest of the adrenaline inducing flight, Findekáno found he could do nothing but monitor Makaluarë’s fading pulse and pray that his cousin would survive the journey.

  
By the time they landed just outside Nolofinwëan camp, the cloak wrapped around Makalaurë’s arm was soaked with blood. Findekáno was mildly surprised there was any blood left in Makalaurë’s body. Thanking Manwë’s noble servant, he hoisted his cousin in his arms and rushed the camp hoping no one would stop him before he got to the healers.


End file.
